


The Room

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: parsel_fest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is won, but Harry Potter is still haunted by dreams of Tom Riddle. And are dreams really all that's going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Room

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written in the first round of parsel_fest as a gift for dea_caelesti.  
> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. Written for fun, not profit.  
> Warnings: Reference to canon character deaths and one non-canon character death, some AU elements, minor angst, a bit of strong language and one sexual scene (the people involved are of age).

It has been seven months, three days and sixteen hours since Voldemort's defeat, and Harry Potter might just be the only one still keeping count. 

The world around him is slowly recovering, rising up from the ashes and beginning to rebuild itself, because life, as the tired old saying goes, must go on.

His own is no exception, so he does what's expected of him and bravely soldiers on, even if that means having to remind himself on a daily basis that things are different now.

They don't feel particularly different, though. Not really. Not _yet_. 

But the circumstances must have changed. 

Everyone acts like they have.

So he follows their example, and no longer tries to hide his recurring nightmares from his friends. 

After all, dreams about Voldemort, no matter how horrifying and upsetting they might be, are entirely harmless now, from a rational point of view.

They're also a conveniently plausible explanation for why he's been feeling so… _beside himself_ lately. 

It's easy to blame his absent-mindedness on war trauma. No one dares to question that, not even Hermione. Perhaps, Harry decides wryly, he would have made a decent Slytherin, after all.

Only he, himself, knows that those nightmares aren't the real cause of his anguish.

Their impact fades into nothingness compared to those other dreams, the ones that assault him even during the daytime and have become unsettling frequent in recent weeks. 

Ron and Hermione definitely mustn't know about those. 

No one can find out about them, not ever, because those dreams… They're wrong, twisted and—Hermione would certainly attest to this if she had a clue—completely illogical. 

In the clear light of day, they also make Harry's skin crawl. Is someone purposely messing with his mind again?

_Yes. That must be it._

What else could possibly explain those visions of dark hair and vivid green eyes, so like Harry's own, and a handsome face he remembers from that night so many years ago?

A terrible night with a tragic outcome…

Harry tried everything within his power to save Ginny, but he was too young, too weak and nowhere near fast enough.

He'll never forget that image of Fawkes soaring into the room and filling him with hope, but one well-calculated spell from Riddle and in an instant, despair took over. 

The bird dropped to the floor. Blood and feathers mingled with murky water. 

In his blind desperation, Harry leapt towards the diary and it was pure chance not skill that enabled him to destroy it.

Riddle vanished in a green mist.

The phoenix healed shortly thereafter, but for poor Ginny, all help came too late. 

She never opened her eyes again.

No one blamed Harry for what had happened; not even Molly Weasley in the deepest depths of her grief. Harry was just a child, they said; hardly a match for the monster that had reappeared. 

No kind of reassurance made him feel any less responsible, though. 

Even today, he feels guilty about Ginny, Cedric, Sirius, and all of the others—so many other victims—that followed. 

Perhaps he always will. 

The road to victory was paved with corpses, and Harry was supposed to be the great hero. He could have done better. He should have saved them all.

Is he the only one who still thinks about that, looks at things from that angle? He doesn't know, and asking someone would feel inappropriate, possibly even suspicious, especially now.

The people around him are getting on with their lives; moving forward.

Harry should, too. 

Everyone keeps telling him as much, reminding him that his whole life lies ahead.

And he does try. 

Well, he goes through the motions.

More to appease Hermione than of his own volition, he has been looking into his future career. As far as he's concerned, it will involve playing Quidditch, not spending the rest of his days hunting Dark wizards, thank you very much.

So it's not that he doesn't have any plans. 

It's just…

Those blasted dreams; they're always there, unrelenting.

It's the same story every time.

Tonight is no exception. 

His head has barely hit the pillow when the dreadful journey commences.

It always starts in the Forbidden Forest. 

In a moonlit clearing, men in masks and dark robes inform him that this is far from over.

"He'll find you, Harry Potter, and when he does, he'll kill you and everyone you've ever cared about."

"He already has," Harry yells back. This dialogue is getting repetitive, trite and tedious, but he can't stop the words as they slip past his lips. He's more spectator than participant. Powerless, no matter what they say. 

_Some things never change._

The Death Eater lets out a sarcastic laugh and his companions join in until they fast fade out of sight and their surroundings fold into another scene in that surreal way only dreams can.

After the vague threats, the real terror comes, though it's never frightening at the time.

On the contrary; it's rather… _thrilling_.

Harry is standing in a corridor. The wan light from dripping candles, the bare stone floor and the green tapestries adorning the walls suggest he's in the Slytherin section, though not in a part of it he remembers ever having seen before.

As if out of nowhere, Tom Riddle suddenly saunters toward him, his aura oozing confidence. He's wearing his Slytherin uniform and a Prefect badge and has an enigmatic smile plastered on his face.

All Harry can think, as he does each time this happens, is that Tom seems… harmless, approachable, normal.

Nothing like the monster he became or will become or well, whichever rules of time apply here.

Harry doesn't know what to say or how he even feels; it's a bizarre combination of scared and curious.

_Intrigued._

Tom Riddle has always fascinated him; even more so since Harry saw Dumbledore's Pensieve.

Visions of a lonely boy in an orphanage; a misunderstood gifted child, a genius gone bad, or had he always been that way?

Harry will never know, not for certain, and yet he can't help but wonder…

Would a nicer childhood have made any difference in the long run? Would loving parents have changed the outcome?

Tom finally opens his mouth to speak and that's when Harry panics. 

Every single time.

He doesn't want to listen to what Riddle has to say. He'd rather not know. 

This part of his life is over.

And besides, he's not as brave as he used to be. He has very little courage left.

So he runs, as fast as he can…

He wakes up, bolting upright in bed, shaking, and breathing like he just ran a marathon. 

The very idea that Riddle could still be alive chills Harry to the bone, though not nearly as much as the realisation that he may want to see that boy again.

Not Voldemort, but the person he was before; a lonely, mysterious boy.

Harry lies back down and swallows thickly.

Perhaps his claims about suffering some kind of war trauma aren't a complete lie. Either that, or he has finally lost his mind.

~*~

The next morning before Harry leaves for his first class—he overslept and to his great dismay, no one thought it necessary to wake him for breakfast—he opens his bedside drawer.

He lets out a relieved breath when he sees it's still there, safely stashed away beneath woollen socks and crisp handkerchiefs; the small box containing the silver ring.

Voldemort was wearing that ring when he perished.

Harry found it afterwards. It was lying on the ground a few feet from where their final confrontation had taken place.

Not knowing why, he picked it up and decided to keep it.

It's not exactly a trophy, because that would imply a sense of victory. It's more like a twisted momentum, proof that Voldemort is really gone—finally, forever; right?

It's also another secret he doesn't share with his friends, for he's certain they wouldn't approve.

Instead, they'd worry and accuse him of brooding and not being able to let go.

They'd urge him to speak with someone, to seek help.

They'd be right in their assumptions and spot-on with their advice.

Harry's well aware of that. His behaviour is unusual, a bit disturbing, even to himself. 

Why doesn't he throw the ring away; fling it into the nearest fireplace, bury it deep in the forest or chuck it into the lake for the squid to play with?

He has no answers to that, just a niggling feeling at the pit of his stomach that just around the corner, something is waiting and biding its time, and that the world hasn't yet seen the last of Tom Riddle.

~*~

A few hours later, Harry's odd day takes a turn for the even more bizarre.

A rattled third year who seems awed to be talking to the great Harry Potter (_Honestly,_ Harry wonders, _will this nonsense never end?_) accosts him in the corridor.

"Er, um, Pot-Har-Harry Potter," the boy stammers, "the, um, Headmistress wants to, um, see you."

Harry nods and kindly declines Hermione's predictable offer of accompanying him.

~*~

In the lavish office that still looks like it belongs to Dumbledore, the Headmistress doesn't waste any time.

Getting straight to the point, she informs Harry that a Prefect heard strange sounds when he was doing his rounds the previous night. They appeared to originate from down below, possibly from those long-forgotten storage rooms in the Slytherin section, but the boy didn't think it would be safe to check.

"A wise, responsible decision, of course," she concludes.

Harry nods slowly, thoughtfully, undecided between fascination and dread.

"That particular part of the castle wasn't damaged during the war," McGonagall continues, "nor is it in use today. No one ever ventures that deep into the dungeons, and it's quite possible that some… residual magical energy continues to linger there. That sort of phenomenon can occur occasionally, and it's usually nothing to worry about; quite harmless. However,"—she studies his face carefully—"should you experience anything… strange or sense something… suspicious, you will come and inform me immediately, won't you, Harry?"

"Yes," he says automatically, making sure to meet her gaze and keep his facial expression sincere. 

She nods, satisfied. "Thank you, Harry. That will be all."

Closing her office door behind him, he can't help smirking. The woman is so easy to deceive. He'd never have gotten away with this if Dumbledore were still alive.

_Dumbledore._

Harry shakes his head. He mustn't dwell on the past. Doing so would solve nothing.

What he needs to do now is…

_Focus._

"Harry?"

He looks up. Hermione is waiting for him in the Common Room. 

_Of course._ He should have expected as much. _Bugger._

"Is something the matter?" she demands, sounding somewhat frantic, like she suspects something. "What did the Headmistress want?"

"Everything's fine," Harry lies with surprising ease. "Just a few practicalities that needed sorting out. Press stuff, mostly. You know what Skeeter and her pack of vultures are like." He gives a dismissive shrug and hopes she won't question him further.

She doesn't, even though her sceptical frown tells him she might want to. 

Harry suppresses a sigh of relief. Hermione seems to have finally grasped the concept of privacy, or perhaps now that she no longer considers him to be in mortal danger, she doesn't deem it necessary anymore to worm the truth out of him at every turn, either.

Just as well. Harry would rather leave Hermione and Ron out of this. 

Too many people have already suffered on his account.

Whoever it is who's hiding down there and whatever that person wants, Harry will take care of it personally, and alone.

_Or die trying._

Funny how the latter option seems a lot less daunting now than it used to.

~*~

It's the middle of the night. Harry is lying in bed.

Green eyes gaze down at him in the half-light and pale hands, softer than he expected, gently caress his face.

He yearns to speak, to ask what's going on here, exactly.

_'Don't stop what you're doing, Tom; just… please… explain.'_

He can't utter a word, however. He is too caught up in the moment, and besides, he'd hate to spoil the mood.

No one has ever touched him like this before or made him feel quite so…

_Alive?_ 

Yes, that's the only term that fits. Well, almost. It's still lacking, somehow.

He lets out an involuntary moan.

Hot breath tickles his neck and nimble fingers wander over his bare chest, slowly, teasingly.

He vaguely wonders where his pyjama top went. He was still wearing it a few moments ago.

_It must be magic,_ he thinks, and chuckles nervously. _No, that's not a giggle. Really, it isn't._

Those talented hands move lower. A warm tongue circles Harry's right nipple, and then his left.

Yes, this is definitely a first.

Harry rests his head against the pillow and bites his lip to stop himself from making too much noise. No one else must hear. That would be far too awkward.

Tom plants a trail of tantalising kisses down Harry's torso.

The pyjama bottoms are suddenly gone, too. Just like that. 

"We're not that different, you and I," Tom whispers. His husky tone sends a delightful shiver up and down Harry's spine. "Tell me, why are you so afraid of me?"

Harry wants to protest, answer that he's not—no, not afraid of anyone, anything… He's Harry _bloody_ Potter and fear is a luxury he cannot afford because no one cares, you see, not about him, only about what he can do for them.

Before he can find the right words, however, never mind utter them, a warm, moist mouth swallows him whole.

Harry moans and thrusts up and down instinctively, lost in wonderful sensations he has never felt before.

"Tom," he whispers brokenly, his hands clutching the sheets beneath him. "Tom… Yes… Oh-God-don't-stop-don't-stop-don't-ever-ever-stop…"

He squints his eyes shut as the tension releases—intensely, brilliantly—and when he opens them again, the room is pitch black and he's alone, his pyjama bottoms sticky and unpleasant against his sweaty skin.

Harry bolts upright in bed. 

_Fuck; how embarrassing!_

He reluctantly opens his bed curtains, looks around the room and exhales. His dorm mates are still sound asleep.

Slowly, his frantic heartbeat steadies.

A few minutes later, he gets up to fetch a change of clothes, a glass of water and some fresh sheets.

No one hears him. No one awakens.

~*~

Unsettling thoughts send Harry's stomach roiling and keep him wide-awake for the rest of the night.

This feels too tangible, too _real_ for comfort. What if it truly is Tom Riddle—no, a younger Voldemort—who is hiding down there? What if the bastard somehow found a means to come back, some cunning trick to fool them all?

History tends to repeat itself.

Harry shakes his head. Speculation will get him nowhere and indecision only makes a bad situation worse.

His mind finally made up, he sneaks out of his dorm. He lost his cloak during the war, but like so many times in the past, the Marauder's Map saves him from any unwanted confrontations.

The Slytherin section is laughably easy to get into. Their password gets more predictable every year.

It only takes three guesses before the wall moves aside.

_'Silver serpent.'_ Harry almost laughs. _Really now!_

He gingerly ventures down a steep spiral staircase and then another.

The farther he descends, the dustier the corridors become. A nasty fungal stench taints the air and an odd draft (where is that even coming from?) makes the torches on the cobweb-strewn walls flicker.

Harry has no idea where exactly he's heading—the Map can't tell him anything about this part of the castle—but he soon discovers he can go no further.

This corridor is a dead end. There is nothing but a brick wall in front of him. 

His brow furrowed in thought, he strides toward it and starts pushing against the dark bricks, feeling the wall's surface for anything out of the ordinary.

He finds nothing. There are no hidden alcoves here and no secret passages. 

Sighing, Harry turns on his heel, and feeling a lot more disappointed than relieved, he returns to his dorm. 

  
~*~

An earth-shattering blast rudely interrupts that morning's Potions class.

Harry swallows hard and braces himself. This isn't his first exploding cauldron this year, and with the way things are going, he suspects it won't be his last, either.

He really should pay more attention; focus on the matter at hand. He never used to be this absent-minded. 

Professor Slughorn crosses his arms and shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. 

The man lost a great deal of respect for Harry when he discovered precisely why the boy did so well in Potions the previous year, and although Slughorn remains overly fond of name-dropping and boasting about friends in high places, he also loathes cheaters and will make no allowances for them, regardless how important or famous they may be.

"You will be serving an hour's worth of detention tonight, Mister Potter," Slughorn declares in a tone Snape would have approved of. 

Harry grits his teeth at the prospect, but his irritation doesn't last long. He has barely taken his seat again or his mind is already drifting.

Why is it that all of a sudden, he can't stop thinking about Tom Riddle? 

He is rapidly becoming obsessed with that boy.

Every time he shuts his eyes, he sees that handsome face, and passing random dark-haired boys in the corridor, he sometimes has to blink and do a double take. At first glance, he mistakes every single one of them for Riddle.

Perhaps, though, this might be normal, in a sense, or at least easily explained through popular psychology.

Harry has never been in a proper relationship, not one in his eighteen years, and no, the brief time he dated Cho, with that sloppy disaster of a kiss, really doesn't count.

Perhaps that's a large part of the reason why he spends so much time daydreaming and brooding lately. Somewhat belatedly, it's finally dawning on him that he's a teenager now, practically a man. 

Of course, that still doesn't explain how dread and fear seem to have morphed into desire.

Maybe, Harry decides wryly, the Skeeter woman was right about him after all, back in fifth year. Maybe he'd be better off at St. Mungo's, strapped to a bed and drugged within an inch of his life.

The way he's been acting lately doesn't suggest that he's still of sane mind. Judging by recent events, he might even be suicidal. Why else would he be entertaining such thoughts and—_oh bugger_—fantasies about Tom Riddle, of all people?

~*~

After the lesson, Ron grabs Harry by the arm and all but drags him into an empty classroom nearby. 

"This can't go on, mate," he says. "You've been out of sorts ever since school started again, and the longer we're here, the worse it gets. Slughorn looked about ready to hex you just now. What the hell's the matter with you?"

Harry gives a dismissive shrug. "Nothing."

"Yeah?" Ron frowns. "Well, I have to say, it doesn't look like nothing to me."

Harry shrugs again. "It's just," he begins hesitantly, struggling to come up with a reply that's convincing enough to stop this little interrogation but at the same time will circumvent the real issues, "all this seems kind of pointless."

Ron frowns. "What does? The stuff we're learning in Potions?"

Harry cringes inwardly. He'd rather not have this conversation, especially with Ron, who has a way of digging his heels in, even more so than Hermione does these days. Maybe she has handed over the torch to him. 

"Yeah," he finally replies, "that, and a couple of other things."

For a long moment, Ron remains silent. He's at a complete loss at what to do. Over the years, he has witnessed his best friend rant and rave, even scream in pain, but he has never seen him so… resigned. Harry almost seems depressed. But that wouldn't be at all like him, surely? Harry isn't the type to give up.

Harry isn't supposed to give up. 

As he considers all that, Ron suddenly recalls a conversation he had with Hermione a few weeks ago. She suggested Harry might be going through an… 'Existential crisis' was the term, wasn't it? She thought that with Voldemort out of the picture, their friend might be lacking a purpose in life. Harry Potter has fulfilled his destiny. His life is finally all his own, but he hasn't a clue what to do with it.

_"It'd be enough to throw anyone off balance, Ronald, even if it's technically a good change."_

Ron frowns. He has never been good at handling crises—be they existential or otherwise—so he decides to provide Harry with a distraction instead. It always worked for George and Fred. _Poor Fred, bless him._

"You know, mate," Ron ventures carefully, "there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up soon."

"Yeah?" Harry replies, not bothering to feign enthusiasm.

"Maybe we could, well, make it a double date? I'll go with Hermione, and maybe you could ask… um, anyone, really. I'm sure lots of pretty girls would jump at the prospect of having coffee with you."

Harry's stomach churns again. "Er, I don't think so," he says as neutrally as he can manage, "but thanks for offering, though."

"Why on earth not?" Ron asks, growing increasingly concerned. Maybe Harry is in the doldrums after all, and knowing Harry, getting him to talk about his feelings won't be easy, never mind convincing him to seek help. _Stubborn bugger._

Harry swallows hard. He knows the Voldemort excuse won't fly any longer, so he might as well go straight for the truth, or some variety thereof. He takes a deep, bracing breath before blurting out, "I, um, like blokes, Ron, not… um, pretty girls."

Ron blinks, temporarily stunned—how could he have missed this? But soon he slaps Harry on the shoulder, and grins. "Really? Well, why didn't you just say so much sooner, mate? It's not like there's anything wrong with it. I mean, Charlie came out last September."

"H-He did?" Harry stammers, wondering not for the first time whether he's actually in the loop about anything anymore.

"Yeah. Our mum was a bit disappointed at first. She was sure he'd settle down with a nice girl, but then she figured a nice bloke would be just as good, just so long as he was happy, you know?" He waits a beat and then adds, "Still, it's no reason not to have a social life, Harry. There are a good number of gay blokes about, too. Rumour has it that Zabini—Anyway, my point being, I doubt any of the single ones would say no if you asked them out."

Harry quickly shakes his head. "No. Maybe after I've finished my studies," he replies, forcing a smile. "I mean, you saw the way I mucked up in Potions earlier, right? I really need to concentrate on school work this year. The teachers are done being lenient with me, in case you hadn't noticed. So I figured I'd stay in this weekend, catch up on my reading and such before I end up having to retake my final year."

"Oh?"

"Hermione will be pleased to hear I'm making an effort though, won't she?" Harry offers at Ron's incredulous look. It's a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, and it doesn't exactly work.

"Yeah, suppose so," Ron replies. "Well, er, just do whatever you think is best, mate." 

Harry nods. "I've got all the time in the world, right?"

"Sure. Er, let's get to Defence, yeah?" 

Harry nods, relieved that the subject is closed.

In his heart of hearts, he already knows this 'dating' thing won't happen. Harry isn't going to look for… a partner? A boyfriend?

He doesn't need one, not when he has…

_Technically? Nothing._

Still, he has stopped dreaming of Death Eaters and threats on his life. Now the only dreams he has involve a handsome boy he really shouldn't be thinking about.

Still, there is no harm in dreaming. It isn't as though any of it will actually happen.

Nor should Harry want it to.

~*~

Night time finds him wandering down another long-forgotten corridor.

Harry won't stop before he has explored them all, even if that's bound to take him ages.

The castle is huge, and according to legend, it sometimes grows on its own accord, adding new rooms and extra walls on a whim.

He turns a corner and comes face to face with a house elf.

"M-Mister Harry Potter," the creature blurts out, a rattled expression on its face. 

"What are you doing down here?" Harry asks. 

"N-Nothing." Nervous fidgeting follows the stammered response. 

Harry smirks. "You're hiding someone down here, aren't you?"

"No!" the elf squeaks, looking as indignant as a small thing with a big pointy noise and large floppy ears can pull off.

"You're helping someone hide, then?"

The sallow face floods with colour. It's all Harry needs to know.   
He looks over the elf's head, and spots rays of light seeping from underneath a worn wooden door. With a determined nod, he strides toward it.

"W-Wait!" the elf protests vehemently. "Not to go in there! Not to hurt him! Is friend!"

"Right," Harry mutters to himself. "Of course he is. You lot are always too gullible for your own good."

He yanks open the door and the first sight that greets him is a teenage Tom Riddle, sitting at a small table and eating steaming soup with a large wooden spoon.

Harry blinks twice, then staggers backwards in confused shock. He'd anticipated this—a part of him had hoped for it, even—but now he doesn't know what to do or how to react. Should he talk to Riddle? Hex him? Run and get McGonagall, or better yet, the Defence Professor?

"Please! No harming him!" the elf yells, jumping in front of Harry and frantically waving its long, wiry arms. "Is friend!"

Instantly snapped out of his daze, Harry does the first and only thing that comes to mind. He turns on his heel and runs.

He doesn't stop running until he's reached the Gryffindor Common Room. 

The door safely shut behind him, he pinches his arm.

"Ow!"

So Tom Riddle is back and has befriended a house elf.

Harry pinches his arm once more, just to make absolutely certain. He winces, then sighs. 

No, this is definitely no dream.

~*~

"Harry, dear," a concerned voice says, "are you still with us? Is everything all right?"

Blinking, Harry quickly sits up straight, realising he almost dozed off in Divination. He must have been painfully obvious about it too. Trelawney actually noticed.

He swallows hard. "Sorry, Professor. I didn't mean to be rude. I, er, haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Indeed," she replies, grabbing his right hand to study his palm. "I can see that. I fear strange and challenging times lie ahead, Harry. Again."

He grits his teeth and braces himself for an avalanche of gloom, doom and knowing his luck, a generous helping of fire and brimstone as well, but instead Trelawney only sends him to the hospital wing.

"Why don't you get a sick note for the rest of the afternoon?" she says. "Try to get some sleep. I'm certain Poppy can give you a potion to help rid you of your strange dreams."

Harry does as he's told, and tries not to speculate on exactly how much Trelawney found out about his dreams. It's probably nothing to worry about at any rate. Most of what she predicts is a load of cobblers anyway, and no one takes her seriously, right?

_Right?_

~*~

Pomfrey is her usual caring, helpful self, but also surprisingly stern. "Why didn't you come and see me a lot sooner, Harry?" she demands, sounding almost offended. "People can't help you if you won't tell them what's wrong, and you do realise we all want to help, don't you?"

Not waiting for a reply, she heads for the medicine cabinet and instantly returns with a vial containing a new variety of _Dreamless Sleep_. 

A year ago, Harry would have downed it immediately without question, despite its vile taste, but here and now, he accepts it with a muttered, "Thanks."

After the hospital wing, he heads straight to the greenhouses, and pours the potion onto the first flowerbed he comes across.

A beautiful blue rose wilts before his eyes. It paints a somehow fitting picture.

~*~

That night, Harry can't stop himself. 

It's as though an invisible force draws him back to the dungeons, back to Tom.

He still hasn't told anyone about his discovery, nor does he intend to. 

People wouldn't understand.

_Merlin_, he can barely comprehend it, himself. 

The only thing he knows for certain is that he has to see Riddle again, because…. _Well, because…_

No, the reason isn't terribly clear either. 

He just has to.

It takes Harry such a long time to locate the room again that he starts wondering whether Hogwarts itself is helping Riddle to remain hidden (but that can't be the case, can it?). When he finally finds the right door and walks through it, there is no one to be seen.

He does, however, spot a dirty plate on the table, as well as a half-full glass and some cutlery, clear evidence that someone had dinner here tonight.

Tom Riddle. 

_So where is he now?_

A hand comes to rest on Harry's shoulder. 

He struggles not to shudder and just barely holds back a scream. Then he whips around to find himself gazing into piercing eyes he knows only too well.

"Well, well, well," Riddle says, sneering maliciously. "What have we here?"

Harry gulps. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

This is oddly familiar. 

Riddle looks at him; scrutinising his features. "I know you, don't I?"

It would be pointless to lie, so Harry nods slowly. "We er, may have met before," he says.

A starling realisation is written all over Riddle's face. "You're the boy from my dreams," he says. 

Speechless, all Harry can think to do is to run.

So he does, as fast as his legs will carry him, and somewhere at the back of his mind, he can't but wonder whether Gryffindor courage is something else that perished during the war.

~*~

For five nights in a row, Harry resists the lure of the dungeons.

He forces himself to stay in the Common Room and to concentrate on his school work, but not much studying actually gets done. He is too distracted and confused.

He has been collecting detentions left and right, too. The Professors certainly aren't as lenient as they used to be, though if he's entirely honest with himself, part of him can understand their reasoning.

Other people are moving on, so why can't Harry Potter? Why shouldn't the same rules apply to him?

~*~

Harry's concentration falters further.

The following morning during an important Quidditch match, he almost falls off his broom. 

Slytherin seizes the opportunity to grab the snitch for the first time in ages, and Draco Malfoy looks like the unexpected victory might give him a heart attack.

Harry scarcely notices. The truth of the matter is that he couldn't care less. 

All he can think about is Tom and that strange conversation they had; assuming those few lines can even be considered a conversation.

Regardless, the connection they seem to share is uncanny. 

Harry wonders whether it's because of the scar, but he doesn't think it can be. His scar hasn't pained him for the longest time.

Tom isn't messing with his head, not in the way Voldemort used to, but still Harry can't get the boy out of his mind.

If only he could confide in someone.

~*~

On the sixth night, Harry can stand it no longer. He returns to the dungeons, determined. 

This time, the room is surprisingly easy to find.

"I've been expecting you," Riddle says from his seat at the table. He seems genuinely pleased to see his visitor. "Why don't you pull up a chair and join me?"

Reluctantly, Harry does just that.

As if on cue, the elf he met on his first search walks into the room, carrying a large tray. 

Harry drops his gaze to the big slice of chocolate cake and the glass of milk that are placed in front of him, and frowns. 

"Tell me about yourself," Riddle says, denying Harry the opportunity to ask the first question.

Harry sighs softly, but decides he might as well comply. Why else did he come down here, if not to talk? 

Besides, if he shares a few things about himself, then perhaps Riddle will open up to him in return, and Harry might be able to assess Riddle's intentions and estimate how dangerous the young Dark Lord might be in his present incarnation.

"Well, er…." Harry takes a deep breath and decides to start at the beginning. "I didn't know I was a wizard until the Hogwarts letter came."

Riddle frowns. "So you're a Muggleborn?"

Harry shakes his head. "My mother was, though, and it was her sister who raised me."

"Ah."

"My aunt and uncle didn't approve of magic. They still don't, even after—well, they think it's freakish, basically. So I guess they thought that if they kept quiet about my magical skills that I'd never find out about the wizarding world."

"Typical. Bloody Muggles," Riddle remarks with a sneer and then asks, "Why didn't your parents raise you themselves, though?"

Harry was expecting the question. It stings regardless. "My Mum and Dad were killed," he replies, careful to keep his voice even.

"Killed," Riddle repeats. Any other person would no doubt utter words of sympathy in this situation, but Tom only asks, "How?"

"They were murdered," Harry replies, vehemently hoping Riddle won't pry any further.

He doesn't. "My mother is dead too," he offers. "I believe my father is still alive, however. I hope to track him down some day, unless my current predicament"—he gestures around the room—"has rendered that impossible."

"Track him down." Harry blinks. "Oh? W-Why?"

He sneers. "Wouldn't you like to know the reasons why you were dumped in an orphanage, Harry Potter? I certainly do."

"Y-You know my name," Harry says.

Riddle nods slowly. "Blasted elf won't shut up about you; keeps referring to you as 'the hero who defeated a Dark wizard and saved us all'. Funny, that."

"What's so funny about it?" Harry demands, somewhat offended.

Tom shrugs. "You're my age, aren't you? And so powerful already. It's… almost impressive. Perhaps we ought to duel one day; see who's the better wizard?"

Harry bites his lip. _Oh God. No._

"Then again, perhaps not. Something tells me you have bigger fish to fry. Or am I mistaken?" 

Harry takes a deep breath, and starts talking. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels the need to spill his life story—all the while carefully omitting the identity and other specifics of the Dark wizard who was vanquished, obviously—but perhaps it's the daunting prospect of duelling with Tom Riddle (which is just about the last thing Harry wants to do), and maybe, just maybe, Harry also needs to tell _someone_.

And it's funny—ironic—how the night progresses from there, and how the first decent conversation Harry has had in a very long time is with the person who will grow up to be…

No, Harry decides, he won't. This boy won't transform into Voldemort. Harry will see to that, somehow.

It's uncanny to suddenly realise that in another time and under different circumstances, the two of them might have been friends.

Harry's quite sure they would have been. 

And now…

They talk until night turns into morning, and before the sun even rises, Harry stops trying to convince himself to think of him as 'Riddle'.

He's just Tom.

~*~

Hermione has concocted a theory. 

The following afternoon, she decides to share it with Ron and Harry when the three of them are alone in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"A Prefect heard more strange noises last night when he was doing his rounds," she says, "and they definitely originated from the dungeons, so I started thinking…"

"Yes?" Harry urges, even though he's not exactly keen to hear the rest of the story.

"Whatever it is that's down there," she continues in that smug tone she uses whenever she's convinced all the knowledge in the world lies at her feet, "personally, I believe it's a spirit or a_manifestation_ of some kind. Anyway, it must be using a type of mind control. Muggles call it 'telepathy', if I remember correctly."

"Huh?" Ron blurts out. "Tele-_what now_?"

"Telepathy," she repeats slowly, enunciating every syllable. "Think about it, Ronald! Many remains were never found. They were buried too deeply beneath the rubble, and the involvement of a vindictive ghost would explain Harry's nightmares too, wouldn't it? I'm thinking it might be a Death Eater who died here, someone high-ranking who excelled in the Dark Arts." She pauses for breath. "And it can't exactly be a living person—a human of flesh and blood—hiding down there because surely someone would have noticed a stranger roaming the castle, looking for food? Furthermore, the Headmistress is gravely concerned, too." 

At that, all colour drains from Harry's face. "S-She is?"

Hermione nods. "She Owled the Aurors after the Prefect went to see her. They're sending a team of experts down tomorrow to investigate."

"Sounds like the best course of action," Ron says, "they must be thinking along the same lines as you are."

Hermione nods again, looking quite chuffed with herself.

"Are you completely sure about McGonagall, though?" Harry asks, struggling not to sound as frantic as he feels. He doesn't like this development one bit. In fact, the implications scare him half to death. 

"Of course. She confided in Madame Pince this morning. When they were discussing it, I happened to be in the library, researching something for tomorrow's Herbology practical, and so I accidentally overheard their conversation."

Harry takes a deep breath. His heart flips dangerously. His sudden protectiveness towards Tom is unexpected, but no less fierce for it. 

He can't let them find him. He has to intervene. 

Tonight, he shall. 

  
~*~

Harry waits patiently until all his dorm mates are sound asleep.

He takes the ring out of the drawer, just in case it might be somehow connected to Tom's well-being, and hurries down to the dungeon room. He can locate it effortlessly now.

"You have to leave," he yells, bursting through the door. "It's no longer safe for you here. The Aurors are coming tomorrow. They'll put two and two together. They…" He hesitates.

Tom is lying on the small, narrow bed in the corner. "What on earth are you ranting about?" he mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes.

Harry swallows hard. "The Headmistress," he replies, his voice ragged, "suspects that there is someone—or something—hiding down here. Once the people from the Ministry start going through these rooms with a fine tooth comb, in a manner of speaking, and discover a magical signature or something else from someone who…" Harry falls silent.

"Yes?" Tom snaps. "Do get on with it."

"Someone who shouldn't be here," Harry adds quickly. "They won't like it, and they'll probably lock you up under suspicion of… of…"

Tom narrows his eyes. 

"Well, anything, really," Harry finishes lamely. 

"So, in other words, you suspect I might be in danger?" Tom doesn't sound scared, merely defensive. Harry supposes that makes sense. Tom would never admit to weakness or fear.

"Yes. Strangers are automatically suspects," Harry replies, and it's not entirely untrue. Post-war paranoia is alive and well, and it's also the main reason why some of the students are being tutored at home this school year. 

"Well, it's hardly my fault I ended up here, is it?" Tom snaps. "One minute, I was sitting in the library, minding my own business, and the next…" He shakes his head. "Anyway, where do you suggest I go, Potter? Do you have some means of sending me home? I don't know anyone here, aside from you, and I certainly don't have any place to live."

Harry swallows. So that's how Tom got here. He simply appeared. That leaves the question of the finer specifics, then, and most importantly, the reason for his presence here. Not that those things are any kind of priority now. They can still be figured out later. Or not. Harry's main concern presently is to find somewhere safe for Tom to stay.

The answer, it turns out, is obvious. "I-I have a place," Harry finally says. "A big old house that's all my own."

Tom raises both eyebrows. "Do you, now?"

"My godfather left it to me," Harry goes on to explain, "and it was used as headquarters during the… well, that war I told you about, but no one has lived there since."

"I see." Tom runs a hand through his hair. A habit he may have picked up from Harry. "And in that house I would be… safe from them, would I?"

Harry nods. "Extremely safe. It's under _Fidelius_ and everything. Luna Lovegood is the secret keeper. She's completely trustworthy and would never tell on me. "

"Indeed. And who is this… Luna, exactly?" Tom asks, his tone tinged with suspicion. "Your girlfriend, perhaps?"

Harry blushes scarlet. "N-No, I—"

"Yes?"

"I-I don't have a girlfriend, actually."

Tom crosses his arms. "And why is that?"

Harry grits his teeth. Trust Riddle to bring something like that up at a time like this. _Well, there's nothing else for it._

"I don't fancy girls," Harry states plainly.

"Ah. Boys then?" 

Harry frowns. He studies Tom's face carefully, trying to figure out whether the young man is mocking him, but that doesn't seem to be the case. "Yes," he then admits softly.

"Ah." Tom hesitates, just for a second, before asking, "So, is that sort of thing… acceptable now?"

"Acceptable?" Harry parrots.

"Yes, where I come from, it is advisable to hide such preferences."

"Hide them?"

Tom smiles wryly. "They are regarded as vile and sinful, by some even considered a symptom of mental illness. When I still lived at the orphanage…." Tom shivers visibly and seems unable to continue.

"You seem to know a whole lot about the subject for someone who—" Harry begins to mutter, but then his jaw drops in realisation. "Oh. _Oh._"

"Quite. You're not the only shirt-lifter presently in this room, Potter," Tom says snidely. "But not to worry," he adds in a dry tone, "I'm not interested in dishonouring you."

"Right," Harry mumbles, and he isn't the only one who notices the unintentional and altogether rather embarrassing disappointment in his voice. 

~*~

Even after the restorations, the secret tunnel to Hogsmeade still exits.

Harry knows better than to question his good fortune.

"We have to hurry," he says. "Ron and Hermione will soon notice I'm gone, and start looking for me."

Tom nods. 

Together, they run.

~*~

It takes Hermione exactly ten minutes to figure out Harry's location and an additional six hours to join him there.

"So you won't be going back?" she asks again, flanked by Ron and Neville, both of whom remain deadly silent after Harry's curt explanation. 

"No," Harry reiterates. He has left Hogwarts and that's all there is to it.

"But your future, Harry," she admonishes. "What about your education; your career?"

"I can always study later," he replies. "I mean, everyone keeps insisting that I have this whole lifetime ahead of me. Couldn't do any harm to take a few years off then, could it?"

Hermione bites her lip, clearly not too pleased at being made to eat her own words. 

"Take a few years off," she repeats, incredulous. "But why, Harry? What will that achieve? What are you hoping to find elsewhere that you can't just as easily find at Hogwarts?"

"Myself," he lies without the slightest effort, but as the word leaves his mouth, he realises it mightn't be a complete lie after all. 

~*~

At the sound of the front door closing, Tom re-emerges from the adjoining room.

"Because of me, you got into a massive argument with your friends," he says, sounding either astonished or impressed. Perhaps both. Harry cannot tell for certain. He doesn't know Tom that well yet.

"Y-Yeah, I did."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't want anyone to find you, or arrest you, or—what I mean is, you're innocent, aren't you? You've done nothing to end up behind bars or"—the next word is barely a whisper—"worse."

"Innocent? Perhaps," he replies and gives a smile that's too smooth and seductive for anyone's good, particularly Harry's. "Though I must confess, the thoughts I've been entertaining about you of late are far from pure."

Harry blushes, but he isn't too surprised when Tom strides toward him, roughly grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him soundly.

It's much nicer than in his dreams.

~*~

It has been seventeen months, five days and twelve and a half hours since Voldemort's defeat, but Harry is no longer keeping count.

Dreams no longer haunt him, and he has no more need for delusions or distractions. He has distanced and detached himself from the world he used to know. 

Doing so is said to be a common practice among heroes. 

Some people even whisper that Severus Snape faked his own death for the sake of a swift, hassle-free disappearance. 

All such claims are merely rumours, however. Harry knows they can't be anything else. Harry saw the man's remains. The memory still makes him shudder. No one could have faked a sight that gruesome. 

Meanwhile, for Harry, the Owls keep coming. Every day, people request an interview or ask permission to write his biography, and at least once a week, he is invited to give a lecture or speech somewhere. 

The occasional leaflet falls in his hands as well, like the one that arrived this morning, about a study-from-home course that covers the same curriculum as Hogwarts' final year. 

Hermione sent it; yet another none-too-subtle hint.

Even if she does it with the best of intentions, Harry vehemently hopes she'll knock it off soon, give up hassling him once her own studies become more demanding and time-consuming, and they're bound to, eventually. No one becomes a Curse Breaker overnight or without a lot of hard work.

"You're brooding again," an amused voice says.

Harry glances over at him then, his best friend, his lover, the only one who makes him feel truly alive. 

Harry still doesn't know what brought Tom into his life. Perhaps the ring was a loophole, a desperate last resort, or a Horcrux they failed to detect. Even Dumbledore wasn't infallible in his theories.

Regardless, none of those specifics matter here and now. 

This young man is quite harmless. And even if he weren't, Harry doubts whether he'd be willing to let him go. 

"Are you all right?" Tom asks, stepping closer, a hint of concern on his face. 

"Brilliant," Harry says. "Couldn't be better." His smile doesn't falter.


End file.
